


Lipstick

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Marilyn Manson - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Caning, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Dominance, F/M, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Makeup, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Piercings, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Submission, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: A sub-for-hire gets more than she bargained for.TW: bondage, light to moderate pain, fetishised lipstick, no actual sex.





	1. Lipstick I

I don't usually work alone. It's just safer to have a support in the next room. The job is high-risk, especially for bottoms. And working alone means that our security equipment is all but useless.

Our alert system - harness bracelets with panic buttons at the palms - is designed to alert the support if things get out of hand. Miss Babel takes safety very seriously. She personally vets all furniture and equipment to be sure that we have access to the button in every configuration.

When she offered a solo job, I was taken aback. She acknowledged the irony and insisted that she knew the client well. He was different, but generous and considerate. She trusted him. She also promised that the emergency signal would be routed to her home, just a few minutes away.

"He's just shy," she told me. "He prefers to be alone. He usually sees me, but he's made a special request: a redhead with full lips and a defiant streak."

That was me, all right. I hadn't been working at the lodge for long, but I already had a reputation for being feisty. Most clients preferred a more demure partner with big eyes and a "yes, sir" attitude. The most generic sub for the most common of fantasies. I was more of a specialty item.

I really only agreed to see the client on Miss Babel's assurances. She gave very little other information. When I walked into the dressing room to put on the finishing touches, I knew only that he was rich and safe, and that he liked lipstick.

I took my time applying a rich red, a color I was using for the first time. It almost matched the laces on my merry widow. I chose a pair of red ankle boots from my shoebox. They slid over my nude stockings perfectly. I adjusted my hair in the mirror, a messy updo that would make me look taller.

When the buzzer went off, I hit the button to let him in and headed for my playroom. Most girls have their own rooms and mine was decorated to match my personal kinks. I sat on a plush bench and bowed my head.

His footsteps were heavy. I resisted the urge to look up as he closed and bolted the door. I wanted to take my cues from him. After all, it was his time.

He wandered around the room, seemingly taking inventory of the tools at his disposal. I inhaled deeply to catch his cologne. You can tell a lot about a man from his scent. He apparently didn't wear any. That was the first surprise of many.

He finally stopped in front of me and cleared his throat. He put a cold gloved finger under my chin and raised my head. I couldn't stop my lips from parting in surprise.

Thick-soled black boots, tight leather pants, matching gloves, a white button-down shirt, and the most distinctive makeup on the planet. But it couldn't be Marilyn Manson. He didn't live in my city, didn't have a concert planned. There's no way he would come all this way for some time at the lodge.

"What's your name?" The rumble of his voice left no doubt. No matter how, or why, he was there.

"Slave," I said softly.

He sat next to me and ran a finger just below my mouth. I blushed and smiled. I wanted a nonthreatening introduction. The sass could come later. For now I wanted him to enjoy.

Apparently pleased with my lips, he moved his hand to my knee. Slowly, he slid his hand down my leg, moving to the floor as he did. He raised my foot and kissed the boot I'd chosen. He removed it and carefully set it under the bench. He rubbed the sole of my foot and kissed my ankle, leaving a carmine smudge on my stocking. It was a tender gesture, one I rarely experienced. He repeated with the other leg and stood.

"Stand up."

I obeyed and, once he had taken a seat on the bench, allowed myself to be pulled across his lap. His gloved hand wandered over my ass and thighs before coming down hard. I jumped at the stinging blow.

"Where are you going?" he asked, putting a hand under my chin.

"I'm not going anywhere, sir."

Satisfied, he began to spank me in earnest. Each slap vibrated through my body. My skin must have been pink. I imagined with each thud a pale imprint of his hand blooming red and disappearing. It didn't take long for my legs to begin twitching involuntarily, bringing my feet off the ground.

"Up."

I obeyed and stood before him, eyes on the floor. My hands were at my sides, but I wanted them to be on my ass, exploring the burning skin.

"Look at me," he said. His expression was flat. "Now, what did you do to deserve that?"

"I misbehaved." That response was usually well-received. Most doms like to use the generic idea of bad behavior in their play, a vague naughtiness.

"Don't give me that shit," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What... did... you... do?"

I shifted my weight nervously. What could I say to please him? He was impatient, leaning forward and tenting his fingers.

"I... I kissed another man." My voice was soft.

He stared into me for several seconds, his eyes swimming in pools of eyeliner and shadow. He sighed and the edges of his mouth turned down. I felt cornered.

"That's very unfortunate," he growled.

I stood like a statue. He stared into my eyes. It was unnerving and exciting. Most sessions are work. This one, I could already tell, would be play for both of us.

Eventually he stood and crossed the room. I watched him unfasten the straps on my St. Andrew's cross. I walked toward him, eager to begin the next stage of my punishment. He grabbed my wrists and hauled me into place, facing the wall. The cuffs closed snugly around my wrists. He belted my waist but let my legs stay free.

There was a sound like a wooden wind chime as he searched for the right implement. I had many. I typically kept the more advanced toys locked away to prevent inexperienced clients from using them improperly and hurting me. At Miss Babel's suggestion, I had left them out.

I soon felt the familiar softness of a basic leather flogger. I was on pins and needles. I couldn't wait to experience his technique. I was brought out of my private thoughts by the sound of him clearing his throat.

"Are you a whore, Slave?" he asked softly, teasing my skin with the scourge. "Do you bring men here to fuck you?"

"No."

It wasn't a lie. The lodge provides fetish encounters only. Sex is out of the question. Even on our own time, we are expressly prohibited from sleeping with clients.

The flogger struck my shoulders in rapid succession. It was a delicious thudding sensation. He had a supple wrist. After a minute or two of swinging, he reached over my shoulder and tucked the handle of the scourge under my chin. He lifted it, forcing my chin up.

"Do you bring men here for this?"

"Yes," I whispered. I knew that it would provoke him. I had a feeling that's what we both wanted.

The flogger was tossed unceremoniously onto its rack and I heard a much harder leather pop against his gloved hand.

The first strike was unmistakable. It was my favorite implement, a bison leather scourge that was perfectly balanced. The straps were sparse, but thick and stiff, a complete contrast to the tool he'd just put down.

The first blow led into the second and third. The fells dug into my skin, leaving stinging streaks. They drug a soft moan from my lips.

"How much for this?" he asked, inches from my ear.

"One hundred dollars." It was the base session rate.

He swung the scourge again and again. My moans deepened as he lit my back and shoulders on fire. One foot came off the floor, as if I were a school girl tasting her first real kiss. He tapped it, reminding me to keep both feet planted.

The blows slowed, then stopped. He rubbed my shoulders, then moved to unfasten my restraints. When I was free, I turned to face him. He put a hand on my throat and pushed me back against the cross.

This time, all of the belts were tightened. He ran his hands down my arms, along my sides, to the curve of my hips. The tops of my breasts were visible, peeking out of my corset. He tapped his fingers on them.

I keep a wheeled cart near my cross for easy access. It usually holds very basic items - gags, blindfolds, collars. He pulled it to his side and carefully chose a simple clothespin.

"Are you proud of yourself, Slave? Letting other men touch you when you should've been waiting for me?"

I didn't respond. He ran a finger along my arm, searching for the perfect spot. I felt the pin close just below my elbow. A matching pin followed on the other side. As he studded my arms with clothespins, I winced.

"You haven't answered me," he said simply, looking down his nose as he carefully placed the last pin. "We both know you're mine. Why have you let other men touch you?"

"For the money." I thrust my chin out defiantly.

He looked down and pursed his lips.

"For the money," he repeated, then turned back to the cart.

He chose a length of ribbon, usually used for amateur bondage. He painstakingly threaded the end through the spring of one of the clothespins. He said nothing but continued to join the pins until he'd finished one arm. The ribbon was more than long enough to cross my chest and string the rest of the pins together.

He stepped back, wrapping each end of the ribbon around one of his hands. His gloves creaked. He frowned at me, a look that said I had driven him to this. Slowly, he continued to back up until his arms were extended and the ribbon was almost taut. I held my breath.

He dropped his arms suddenly, tearing the clips off of my skin like a zipper. I yelped like a puppy. The immediate pain was intense, but the burning afterward was even more so. I watched him unravel the ribbon and drop it on the floor by the cart. I whimpered while he checked the cart's drawer.

When he faced me again, it was with a hypodermic needle between his fingers. He had taken his gloves off to better handle it. He looked at the needle, not at me, examining it closely.

"How much for this?"

I hesitated. His eyes snapped to mine, dark and demanding. He tilted the needle and pricked his own finger. A tiny drop of blood rose up. He sucked on it, his eyes never leaving mine.

"One hundred dollars."

He sighed and tossed the now-used needle into my sharps bin. He made a show of rolling his sleeves up and pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. My stomach fluttered. He chose a fresh needle and waved it in front of my eyes. I set my jaw to show him that I wasn't intimidated. I thought I saw the corners of his mouth turn up a tiny bit.

The needles went in slowly and smoothly. He pierced the mounds of my breasts in neat lines. He was careful to alternate sides for symmetry. I couldn't hide my smile. He was skilled in a way I'd always dreamed he would be.

Satisfied with his work, he ran his hands down the still-pink skin of my arms. The nitrile stuck and skipped like his leather had not. From a tactile standpoint, it was luscious. I bit my lip.

He caught my chin in his hand and stared at my lips. I returned the favor, noting the smudges around his mouth. His plastic thumb rubbed my bottom lip, ruining the perfect patina. I'd never fetishised lipstick before, but I could feel it growing on me.

He cleared his throat. It was a deep, erotic sound. He returned to the rack that held many of my toys. I craned my neck to see what he was looking at. All I could see was the back of his shirt and the shadows of the tattoos beneath.

When he turned, the position of his body hid his choice. He waited until he was directly in front of me to reveal the cane. He held it horizontally at face level and tapped my chin with his finger. I obediently opened my mouth, thinking he would place the smooth wood between my teeth.

Instead, he rubbed my lips with it, transferring much of my remaining lipstick to its grain. He then parted his lips and added his own color to the rod. My red and his blended together in streaks.

"How much for this?" he asked, lowering the cane.

"One hundred dollars."

He tapped the cane very gently against my inner thighs. Despite his reserve, every blow stung. I moaned and tried to wriggle my legs.

He stepped back for a moment, his hand on his mouth as though deep in thought. After a minute or so, he touched my chin again. I opened wide. This time, he did want me to hold the cane. He bent down and unbuckled the cuffs holding my ankles apart, then my wrists, then my waist. I stood straight, glad to be in a more natural position.

My comfort was short-lived. Taking me by my wrist, he moved me to the bed. The bed has a sturdy metal frame and a set of stocks at one end. He took the cane from me and laid it on the bed. He gestured toward the stocks, but I didn't move.

"No," I said defiantly.

The word sparked something in him. For the first time, his mouth spread across his face in a devilish grin. He cocked an eyebrow.

"No?"

He gripped the back of my neck firmly. In one motion, he pushed me forward and, with the other arm, pulled my arms out to catch me. It was a skilled move that protected my still-pierced breasts. On all fours, I giggled with excitement. His hand came down on my ass.

"How much to put up with that mouth?"

I squealed as he landed blow after blow. The blush that had covered my ass and thighs returned, redoubled. I couldn't hear him panting, but I could feel it, subtle shifts of his weight as he unleashed a stinging beating. He paused and rubbed my raw flesh.

"How much?"

"Two hundred dollars."

He chuckled and moved me toward the stocks. I obeyed, laying my hands and neck across the padded wood. The top slat lowered slowly and clicked into place.

I felt the cane rubbing the sole of my foot and shivered. The tapping began, so slight and gentle, but so impactful. The sensitive nerve endings sparked. I curled my toes and shrieked. Just before I reached a threshold, he stopped.

I gasped as he rubbed my feet. I felt his mouth, his tongue soothing the sting. Whimpers and moans fell out of me. It was more vulnerability than I'd ever felt in that room.

He got off of the bed and cleared his throat. I heard him walk toward the bench, heard a sliding sound. When he reappeared in front of me, he was a mess. His lipstick was nearly gone, the lower half of his face a dark smudge.

He sat on the floor with his long legs crossed. He had a black case that resembled an oversized lunch box. He opened it and took out a small mirror. He turned it toward me. As he held it in one hand, he used the other to ruin my face. He rubbed my lips, spreading the red across my cheek. It was sensual and indulgent.

"How much for this?" he whispered.

I stared at myself in his mirror. I had no idea what to say. I'd never done anything like it before.

"How much?" His face had the serious, examining look he'd worn at the beginning of our play.

"A hundred dollars."

He pulled a few things out of the box and turned the mirror on himself. I watched, mesmerized, as he carefully overlined his lips, his eyes focused in their deep pools. The shape was impeccable. He switched to a lipstick, the same vampiric shade he'd been wearing. Slowly, he filled his mouth in. The makeup was sleek and moist. As he worked, the shape of his face seemed to change. He pressed his lips together to smooth the color and blew a kiss like a tart.

He moved closer and set to work painting my face to match. He had a steady hand. As he worked, his lips parted and closed, as if commenting on the progress. The lipstick was silky. Having it applied was luxurious, like a massage. He mimed a lip press and I echoed it. The corners of his mouth drew up daintily, offering a smirk of satisfaction.

He showed me the mirror. It was perfect. I felt like a concubine.

He slid his box away and came even closer. His fingertips traced my jaw, touched the corners of my mouth. He leaned toward me, his lips just inches from mine. I could feel his breath.

"How much for this?" His voice was almost inaudible.

I couldn't kiss him. I wanted to so badly, I was straining against the stocks. But I couldn't. It was forbidden. I could lose my place at the lodge. I looked toward my safety bracelet.

He followed my line of sight and sighed. He pulled something from his case and touched my hand. I heard a snipping sound, felt pressure, and the bracelet came away. He dangled it where I could see and dropped it and his scissors back into the tin. I was truly naked, truly alone.

"Now," he purred, licking his crimson lips, "how much?"

He leaned in again. I could smell the sweetness of his breath, his sweat, a hint of wax from his makeup. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anything.

"Nothing," I choked out.

To my delight, he closed the gap. I melted under his kiss. He was hesitant, teasing. I wanted to scream. I pressed my thighs together and squirmed. He pulled back and watched me, seemingly amused by my desire.

"Let me out," I begged, "please. Please, let me go."

He turned his head and put two fingers behind his ear.

"Please," I said, louder, "I'll be good, sir. Please let me out."

Being showered in his sensuality and having no ability to engage him was by far the biggest challenge. He had hit me, pinched my flesh, and pierced my skin with needles, but I'd been laid low by the thought of his kiss.

He stood up, but I didn't feel him on the bed. Instead, he walked around the room, looking at my toys. When he was out of sight, he rattled things so that I could keep track of him. It was torture. I couldn't catch my breath.

"Please, sir." I was almost shouting. "I'll do anything. Please don't leave me here."

He came slowly back to the bed, measured steps that only prolonged his abuse. He touched my shoulders, ran his fingers over my corset's laces. I began to tremble.

Finally, he lifted the top slat. I sat up, dizzy from keeping that position, and from his influence. He sat on the bed and folded his fingers.

"What am I up to, Slave?"

"What?" my mind was still swimming.

"Your fee. How much for the things I've done to you?" He sounded impatient.

"I think..." I tried to remember. "I think five hundred dollars?"

"Ok," he said, nonchalantly pulling his wallet out. "We should settle up before I go."

My breath caught in my throat. Go?

"No," I said, taking hold of his arm.

He looked at me and, for the first time, he looked genuinely angry. The way his forehead knit and his eyes narrowed were frightening, but not nearly frightening enough to make me let go.

"What did you say to me?" His tone matched his face, low and gravelly.

"Please." I swallowed hard. "You can keep it. All of it. Just... Please..."

He sighed. It was the sound of a man dealing with a petulant child. His eyes closed for a moment and he rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.

"What do you want, Slave?"

I didn't know. I didn't know what, exactly, would satisfy the need in me. I only knew that I wasn't ready to be released.

"Just don't stop."

Another deep sigh. He got up and retrieved my sharps container and another pair of nitrile gloves. He turned my body and reached for the needles that still decorated my breasts.

"No." I turned away.

"You don't get to decide," he barked. "I say when it's over."

I obediently turned back and allowed him to remove the needles. The sound of them hitting the bottom of the disposal bin made my throat burn. Tears welled up and spilled over. They were honest. My emotions were more raw than any injury he could've inflicted.

When the piercings were removed, he put the container back in its place, shucked off the gloves and tossed them on the cart. He returned to the bed and again opened his wallet to pay me.

"You can't," I insisted. "You can't just leave me here. Please. I need more."

He trailed a finger along the top hem of my corset. The simple movement was electric. After several passes, he slowly walked his fingers up my chest, from my cleavage to the hollow of my throat. He paused and I raised my eyes to meet his. I lifted my chin in invitation.

In an instant, I was on my back, his hand on my throat. I gasped. He searched my tear-streaked face, then leaned over me and grazed his lips against mine. His kiss was light, almost feminine.

I reached up to hold the back of his head. As soon as I pulled him toward me, he stopped. I tried desperately to bring his lips back to mine, but he was like a statue. I lowered my hands.

As soon as my arms were at my side, he continued the kiss. He was firmer now. Our lips stuck together just enough for the tackiness to be felt. He turned his head for a better angle and stacked kiss after kiss on my mouth.

I didn't realize that I'd raised my hands to draw him in. He stopped abruptly when he felt my touch. Again, I lowered my arms and he continued.

His lips gained momentum and he began to nip at my sensitive skin and stroke the cleft between my lips with his tongue. I opened for him and he deepened his kisses, licking my teeth and exploring my tongue. I wanted him to eat me.

He pulled away from the kiss and I could see that his perfect lips were already smudged at the edges. The sight was fiercely erotic. He motioned toward the center of the bed and I moved.

My bed had never been used like this. It was a platform for my stocks that kept my knees comfortable. It was a place to be strapped down for horizontal play. I'd never laid on it freely, consumed by a desire for a man's flesh.

I expected more kisses, but he had noticed the small end table next to the bed. I watched him patiently light the white soy candle I'd laid out. It was new and the wick burned brightly. He turned back to me and stroked my thigh.

My stockings were held up by the garters on my corset. It would have been easy to unclip them. Instead, he produced a small folding knife from his pocket. When he opened it, the scrape of metal on metal gave me goosebumps.

He carefully pinched a bit of the nylon and used the blade to cut a small hole. He repeated the process several times on each leg. Between cuts, he paused to run the edge of the blade lightly on my skin.

I wasn't afraid, more intrigued. He'd proven himself to be knowledgeable and considerate. Every ripping sound, every stroke of the blade, was intensely arousing. I had to concentrate to keep my hips from rocking.

Content with the shredding he'd done, he placed the pocketknife on the side table. I felt his fingers probe one of the holes in my stocking, then a jerk as he tore the nylon. I moaned. Before long, he had ruined my stockings, removing most of the fabric. Only the cuffs and a few ribbons remained.

Gently, he propped my legs wide, exposing the most sensitive surfaces. The position was so sexual. I ached to be ravished but was bound by his desires. He ran his fingers over my inner thighs, stimulating the skin.

When the first drops of wax hit, I gasped and writhed in spite of my intent to stay passive. I'd done a lot of wax play, but nothing compared. The shock of it, the heat, went deep into my flesh. I looked into his face. He was smirking.

When he stopped, I felt like a bottle of Sixpence stout. I didn't think there could be any bare skin left on my thighs.

"I wonder," he said in a baiting tone, "how much that would've been."

"Free," I breathed. "Anything you want is free."

He had turned to put the candle on the table and blow it out. When he looked back at me, he was licking his teeth. His eyes were predatory. As he took up station between my knees, I silently begged to be taken. I let my hands wander over my breasts and stomach, down to my sodden panties. He gripped my wrists and slammed them down next to my head.

"Look at you, trying to seduce me." He leaned in and smelled my hair, growling into my ear. "You kissed another man, Slave. I haven't forgotten. Do you really think a used thing like you could excite me?"

He shifted his weight, holding himself up with one arm and using the other hand to wipe at my face, spreading lipstick from cheek to chin. I could smell his sweat. My head was swimming.

"You bore me."

His free hand trailed down my body and cupped my sex. I hiked my hips, trying to rub against him, throbbing for release.

"Stop. Moving," he hissed. "You're behaving like a harlot, Slave. I'm starting to suspect you did more than kiss."

He began to move his middle finger ever so slightly. It applied a delicate pressure to my cleft, then removed it, in a steady rhythm. It was just enough to bring a moan to my lips.

"Did you take your clothes off for the man?" he demanded. "Did you put your mouth on him? Did you fuck him?"

I could feel each pulse of his finger ripple over my skin. I willed myself to lie still and stay silent. I was afraid that he would stop.

"You're filthy, Slave." His voice was now barely a whisper, hot in my ear. "You've been defiled. No amount of punishment could undo that."

I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes tightly. I could barely breathe. My sex was on fire and the fever was radiating outward. I was past the point of no return, one foot off the cliff, waiting for gravity to take over.

"You. Don't. Deserve. Me."

I fell. My orgasm pulled me off of the bed and wrenched a scream from my chest. All of the energy that I'd absorbed came crashing out. The room went black. I felt him kiss me, digging his tongue into my mouth. My breasts heaved against his weight.

After what felt like days, I descended into quaking aftershocks, becoming more aware of the world beyond my flesh. He was still on my mouth, biting my lips and mashing them with his. My whimpers were muted by his kisses.

I raised my hand to cradle his cheek. This time, he didn't protest. My breathing deepened and his kisses softened until they were light brushes and pecks. I sank, exhausted, into the mattress. I couldn't have gotten up if I wanted to.

He laid with me for a long time, touching and kissing my skin. He laid his head on my chest and listened to my heart. He held my hand. When he felt I had sufficiently recovered, he planted a final kiss and got up.

As he went around the room, putting things away and collecting his possessions, I wished I could handle another round. I was spent and so, I guessed, was he. I stretched, loosening the muscles that had been tensed for so long.

He returned to the bed and began to count bills out. He laid the stack on the side table and weighted it down with his tube of lipstick. He surveyed my body, dewy and helpless.

"Can I see you again?" he asked in a gentle voice.

I licked my lips and swallowed, but my words still came out raspy and dry.

"Of course. Anytime. Thank you, Marilyn."

He grinned, his perfect teeth a stark contrast to his stained face. I closed my eyes and heard his heavy boots making their way out the door and down the hall.

When I stumbled into the dressing room, I looked like I'd been mugged by ten men. Lipstick bruises dotted my face, arms, legs. I wiped them away, sorry to see them go. The remnants of wax on my thighs flaked off. I removed my ruined stockings, dropping them into my shoebox to keep.

In a night of many firsts, I slept in my room, curled up on the bed, covered in wax pebbles and the heady scent of his body.

Miss Babel nudged me awake.

"Rough night?" she asked with a grin.

"Oh... No, it was fine. He was great."

I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. I blinked and rubbed my eyes.

"Well," she continued, nodding to the side table, "he must've liked you. He left a thousand dollar tip... And I see your bracelet was damaged."

Smirking, she held the long-forgotten panic button up. The straps were cleanly cut. I could almost hear the sound they made. I sighed. I had no good explanation for such an obvious disregard for the rules.

"Don't worry, I have spares." She brushed a few flakes of white wax from my shoulder. "I told you he was different."

A blush spread across my face. He certainly was. I would be feeling his warmth for a long, long time.

 


	2. Lipstick II

It felt like years had gone by. In truth, it was about eight months. Not a day went by that I didn't think of him. I had developed a ritual. Before each sub session, I touched the tattered remains of my stockings from that day. I hoped it would infuse some of him in the dom of the afternoon.

It never worked. No one came close to his skill or presence. No one made me feel as alive as he did. I ached to see him again, to feel the intimacy we shared, to give my trust to him. I hoped every day to be asked to take on a solo job. Every time Miss Babel approached me, my heart fluttered. I started to pray for release from the memory.

I came in for the afternoon and Miss Babel asked me into her office. I expected a payroll issue or a schedule change. I sat down and she locked eyes with me. A secretive smile tugged at her lips. She leaned forward and cleared her throat.

"Yes," I said breathlessly before she could speak. "Yes, I'll see him. When?"

She laughed but I knew she understood. She'd played with him. She knew.

"Tonight," she said. "I know it's short notice."

I nodded a little too enthusiastically. She dug in her desk and handed me a security bracelet - a set of straps that held a panic button in the wearer's palm. I already had one. I shot her a quizzical look.

"It's for him. He's subbing this time."

I don't top often. I'm more comfortable as a submissive, and it's what most clients want. But I didn't dare question it. His time, his choice. And to be honest, I would've done anything to see him.

Miss Babel didn't elaborate much on his specific tastes. She did imply that he took as much as, or more than, he gave. I tingled with anticipation. I wanted to put him in the same place he'd put me when we'd last played.

The day went quickly - run of the mill doms doling out spankings. After my last regular client, I set my room for a taller sub. I carefully laid out all of my tools. I prepped my newest additions. I put more effort into getting the room ready for him than I had for any other client.

I chose a black bodysuit with corset lacing, fishnet stockings and tall boots. I left my hair down, pinned back from my face. His lipstick, left behind after our last session, went on like frosting.

Miss Babel was long gone when he buzzed to be let in. I could hear the echo of the door closing. I hung back, letting him sit in the room for a few minutes. I knew the suspense would prime him.

When I entered, he was sitting on the plush bench where he had first seen me. I bolted the door and stood in front of him. His eyes were down, but I could see his immaculate lips, his crisp white shirt, black leather pants and boots. It was the same outfit from an entirely different angle.

I hooked two fingers under his chin and lifted his face. His hazel eyes swam in messy, dark eyeshadow. He looked hungry. I wanted him to make a meal of me. But that wasn't what he'd come for.

"Did I say you could sit there?" My voice was already husky.

He shook his head, tiny movements that we're easier to feel than to see. I stepped back and he slid onto the floor. He kept his eyes up, looking past what would've been his eyebrows.

"You caused a lot of trouble the last time you were here," I chided. "Are you going to make trouble today?"

"No," he muttered. "No, ma'am."

"We'll see."

I stepped around him and sat, crossing my legs and holding one out. He leaned in and kissed my ankle, then looked to me for approval. I nodded. He kissed and licked my boot, sighing with pleasure. I offered the other foot. I stopped him when his lipstick was nothing more than a smudge.

I stood and moved toward the bed. I snapped my fingers and he dutifully crawled to me. I had laid out a selection of collars for him to choose from. The style he picked would be a decent guide to what he wanted out of the play.

"Dress yourself," I said, pointing.

After looking each one over, he chose a violet leather number with a sturdy ring and pearl studs. I moved the rejects to the side while he buckled it in place. I held the security bracelet out to him. He looked at it, then at me, and shook his head.

"If you don't want the bracelet," I said softly, "then what is your safe word?"

"I don't want one, ma'am."

His eyes were sincere. I cupped his cheek and he nuzzled into my palm. His vulnerability was electric. I stroked his cheek with my thumb, then let my hand fall away.

He followed me to my newest installation. Wall-mounted restraints were only recently approved by the lodge's insurers. The length of chain was bolted into a stud. I lifted him by the ring on his collar and clipped it to the other end of the chain.

"There, now," I said softly, unbuttoning his shirt. "Don't you look nice? What's your name again?"

He stiffened and bit his lower lip. His tattoos came slowly into view. I pulled his shirt down his shoulders, tracing the cyclops and devil with my fingernails. I let him breathe, enjoying the tension. Then I pulled his shirt tight around his biceps and gave him a little shake.

"Marilyn," he whispered, dropping his gaze.

"What a sweet name," I purred, pulling his shirt down his arms and tossing it aside. "Sounds like a kitten. But you weren't a kitten when you were here last, were you?"

He shook his head. His black hair fell into his eye. He kept his arms at his sides. I brushed his hair back and leaned toward him.

"Turn around. Hands on the wall."

I picked up the same beginning flogger he'd used on me. When I turned back to him, he was leaned against the wall. I ran the supple leather straps over his skin. He shivered. I knew the feeling well.

When I swung the scourge, I kept the blows quick and moving. I could see the muscles in his shoulders flexing. He sucked in a breath. It spurred me to gradually increase the force. His skin began to bloom pink.

I dropped the flogger and ran my hands over his back. It was hot and I know that my touch was stinging. I raked my fingernails down his spine. He sighed. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my cheek into his shoulder.

"Do you think this makes up for your bad behavior, kitten?"

I could feel him shake his head. Without moving my face, I tangled my hand in his hair and tugged. He hissed.

"No, ma'am."

I hummed in agreement. It was time for something harder. I didn't want to chance damaging his lovely tattoos with a cane or crop. I chose a thick paddle instead. I hit it against my palm a few times, daring him to turn and look. He stayed still.

That is, until the first hard blow. His knees gave and he dipped several inches. A low sound, just above a sigh, fell from his lips. I loved it and I wanted more. I wanted to hear all of the sounds he could make.

I waited until he was steady again before continuing. I landed a solid hit across the small of his back, then pressed my hand over it to brace him. I reddened his shoulder blades. His fingers flexed as though he were going to claw through the wall.

"Turn around, kitten."

He turned slowly. I caught his eyes for a moment before he lowered them. His lips fell open. I wanted to fall on him, to devour his mouth. I swallowed my desire.

"Do you think we're even?"

He nodded. I pulled his chin up. When his eyes met mine again, I cupped two fingers to my ear.

"I think so, ma'am."

I shook my head and pushed him backward. He winced when he hit the wall. I pulled my rolling cart close and took my ruined stockings from the tray. I rubbed the torn nylon over his chest. He sighed.

I took his chin roughly and tapped his lips with my thumb. He opened and I stuffed the shredded stockings between his teeth. He stood stock-still. It made it much easier to place the first few wraps of nylon rope.

Soon I had given him a very nice chest harness with lengths that ran between his legs and over his shoulders. The lavender rope went well with the collar he'd chosen. I told him so as I unclipped the chain. I instructed him to remove his boots and join me.

Watching him crawl toward me was exhilarating. I stood him up against my Saint Andrew's cross and buckled his wrists in place. Without his shoes, he was quite a bit shorter. The thick soles of my boots brought me up to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and snuggled into his shoulder. His chest shuddered.

"Aww," I hummed. "Poor kitten. Doesn't anybody love you?"

I leaned back and playfully slapped his cheek. My wheeled cart squeaked as I pulled it close. I could feel his eyes on me. I picked out a tens wand. I ran the toy over his biceps and throat. He seemed to relax at its smooth glass and my gentle touch.

The wand lit up when I turned it on. His eyes were closed, so the first electric pinch, just below his navel, was a surprise. He jumped. Before he could recover, I began to tap the wand along his stomach and chest, utilizing the holes in the rope harness.

He sighed. It was a sound like butter, like honey. I felt it running up my spine. I bit my lip and turned the wand's intensity up.

I rubbed the wand along the sensitive skin of his inner arms. I ran the tip along the arches of his pelvis. He moved his hips deliciously. I kept going until he was writhing, pulling against the cuffs on his wrists.

I took advantage of his distraction, pulling a camera from a drawer in the cart and snapping a photo. The flash startled him. I held his eyes, now wide with concern, as I shook the Polaroid. I counted slowly to 60.

The picture had begun to develop. It showed him hanging from the cross, his head thrown back. He was thrusting his hips out. His hands were clenched. I held the picture up to him.

"Look at you, kitten," I said, stroking his arm. "You look absolutely slutty. Are you a slut?"

I took my nylon stockings from his mouth. He licked his lips. His cheeks were red. I gripped the harness, set my feet and lifted. His face told me that the ropes between his legs were squeezing in all the right places.

"Are you a slut?" I repeated.

"No, ma'am."

I rubbed his lower lip with my thumb. He dropped his jaw. I saw his tongue move.

"I don't believe you, kitten." I pressed my body against him, holding his leather-clad hips. "And I don't like being lied to. So let's see, shall we?"

He looked bewildered when I stepped back. I retrieved a kit I had put together, specially for him. He watched me unpack it with interest.

I took his chin roughly and cleaned his face with a towel. The last remnants of his lipstick and the messy dark eyeshadow came away. He was handsome, as much in that moment as he had ever been.

I set out to make my handsome pet beautiful. I carefully applied new eyeshadow and finished him with mascara. I overlined his lips and filled them with a deep plum lipstick. He pressed his lips together, smoothing the color.

"You're so pretty kitten."

His hazel eyes flashed and I could see his cheeks flush. Lipstick was an old friend to him. But it had become a part of his masculinity. Calling him "pretty" had apparently called that maleness into question. He sucked in a breath as I took a second picture.

At my instruction, he slowly counted to 60. He really was lovely in his violet and pearls, painted like a proper lady. He closed his eyes when I showed him.

"You still look like a little slut here, kitten," I sighed, taking a firm hold of his harness. "I really don't believe you now."

I attached a simple chain to his collar and undid the buckles on his wrists. He sank to the floor obediently and followed behind me. I walked him in a circle around the room, loving the creak of his pants.

I stopped at the bed. I dropped the chain and he stayed put. I adjusted the stocks at the foot of the bed, lifting them a bit to better accommodate his lanky frame. A little tug on his harness got him onto the bed and into position.

The click of the top rail raised goosebumps. It was here that he had truly overstepped. It was here that he'd taken me out of the safety of the familiar and set me adrift in his hands. I wanted him to feel that exquisite loss and gain.

He shifted and took deep breaths. He felt the enormity too. I stepped around the bed and knelt in front of him. He smelled like salt and wax.

"Do you want the bracelet?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then what is your safe word?"

I cupped his cheek and combed my fingers through his hair. I leaned toward him, my face just inches away. He pushed his chin out, parting his lips, asking for a kiss.

"If you don't choose a word, kitten, I'll leave you here." I breathed the threat into his mouth.

"Ma'am..." he begged hoarsely.

"'Ma'am' it is," I smiled.

I joined him on the bed and untied the last knots of his harness. The straps between his legs came away. I reached under him and unbuttoned his pants. I heard his breath quicken. The pants were tight and it took several yanks to pull them down, exposing his buttocks.

I let fly with a quick open-handed spanking. He squirmed. My handprints overlapped, painting his flesh a brilliant pink. I listened for his voice but he held back. I ran my fingers over his burning skin, knowing that each touch would send new heat through his body.

I stood and moved to the side. The camera went off and I prompted him to count. Soon he was looking at himself, bent over with his reddened ass in the air, his hair grazing his painted lips.

"You look like a slut to me, kitten," I sighed. "Look at you with your pretty pink ass. Whose ass is that?"

"It's mine."

I scoffed and pressed our cheeks together, whispering in to his ear.

"It looks like that ass is for sale, kitten. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No."

I leaned back and loved him, touching his cheeks and lips, brushing his hair from his forehead. I leaned toward him, very nearly touching our lips together. His breath was ragged. I could've taken him if I wanted. The power was intoxicating.

Instead I retrieved the wheeled cart. I let him hear the snap of a pair of nitrile gloves. I reached down to show him a small hypodermic needle. I gave him the chance to object. He set his jaw and braced himself.

To his credit, he didn't flinch. I carefully inserted the needle just under the skin. The point emerged a short distance away. I made two lines of needles down the centers of his buttocks. Using the needles and two pieces of white ribbon, I gave each side an elegant corset-like lacing. Big, showy bows finished them off.

Of course he had to see them. He followed the counting ritual we'd established and blushed deeply at the sight of his now very feminine ass. He swayed his hips. A growl, tinged with anger, became a lustful hum.

I leaned into him and brushed his lips with mine. The stocks creaked against his weight. He was hungry. I gave him just enough. I didn't even smudge his lips.

"Now that is very slutty," I said softly, moving out of range. "You said you weren't a slut, kitten. Did you lie to me?"

He shook his head, flipping his hair. His eyes were wide and pleading.

"Then how do you explain it?"

I kept my fingertips on his skin. He muttered under his breath. I lifted his face and turned, giving him my ear.

"Only for you."

I kept my head turned to hide my grin. A few deep breaths helped. He took my stillness as an invitation to continue.

"I'm only a slut for you," he purred. "Only for you."

"I guess you won't mind if I claim that ass, then?"

I turned to face him and narrowed my eyes. He bit his lower lip. I knew that look - submission, trust, anticipation. I was proud of him for letting go.

He sighed as I removed the ribbons and needles. The new pair of gloves squeaked against his pants as I adjusted them. With all of the needles in the sharps container, I reached for a toy I'd only used once before.

I showed him the blade. He said nothing but took a deep breath. We knew we were about to cross a line. He trusted me to hurt and not harm. I trusted him to use his voice to guide me. The room was like a sauna, drawing sweat from both of us.

The cuts were small, short and shallow. He didn't speak but I could hear him sighing and humming freely. Tiny beads of blood swelled in the wake of the blade. I retraced the shape, etching our relationship into his pink flesh.

I took another picture before releasing him from the stocks. He sat up carefully, rubbing his neck. His pants were sitting awkwardly over his bulge, moved only to bare his ass to me. He waited patiently, counting to 60.

His face melted when I showed him the picture. He looked like I'd proposed, overwhelmed and adoring. The heart I'd drawn wouldn't bleed much and wouldn't scar, but the fact that we'd done it sat deeply in both of us.

He reached for me and I held him. I laid back on the bed, taking him with me. I pushed his hair back and kissed him, light presses that tingled. He arched, searching for more.

I couldn't give him more. Miss Babel's rules were solid. We provided fetish play only. Sexual contact of any kind was prohibited. I thought back to our first session, how expertly he'd played, how he'd left me spent. She knew and said nothing. My concern was quickly outweighed by my growing need to be his.

I kissed him firmly. Our tongues intertwined. His hands on my face and neck were soft and hesitant. I pushed my fingers through the weave of his harness and groped his chest. He hiked his hips and I felt his hardness. I wondered how long he had been near the edge.

I came up for air, smiling at the smudges of violet and red on his lips. My hair swung past my shoulders, red curls that bounced against my chest. He took my hand and carefully placed the chain, still connected to his collar, between my fingers.

I tugged it. He lifted off of the bed, bending to the small amount of force. I lifted his hands over his head and he stretched. I moved to straddle his stomach. He hiked his hips, searching for friction. My body was just close enough for the tiniest pressure.

He licked his lips lasciviously. I dipped my fingers into his mouth and he sucked them. His hands wandered down and moved my hand from his face to his throat. His eyes were savage.

I slammed his hands back to the bed, over his head. I wrapped my hand around his neck and pressed gently. I knew better than to crush. But it was obviously enough for him. He rolled his body and lifted his chin. His mouth fell open.

"That's it, kitten," I murmured. "Show me. Just for me."

He gasped and his eyes fluttered closed. A deep, sweet moan filled the room. He shook. I dove into his mouth, smothering the moans that followed. He tasted like salt and surrender. He went limp, only moving to kiss me back.

I slid off of him and laid down at his side. I stretched my arm across him and stroked his shoulder. He swallowed hard. I could feel him trying to calm his breathing. I held his hand. I laid kisses between the ropes of his harness. He hit bottom and slowly came back.

"Thank you for seeing me again," he said, raising up on one elbow.

I looked at him. His lipstick was smudged but his eyes were perfect. He was flushed and glowing. I wanted to love him.

"Of course." I cleared my throat to disguise my emotions. "I always try to make myself available for valued clients."

"Valued clients?" He touched my cheek. "Or me?"

My face must have betrayed me. I could feel it getting hot. I searched his eyes.

"You," I sighed.

He nodded and smiled. I touched his arm, just to feel his skin. I knew I could never feel him fully, unashamed and unrestrained. I would lose my place at the lodge. The necessity for a space between us hurt.

"I'm thinking about negotiating a different kind of contract," he said softly. "A longer period of service, away from the lodge. I can't make it back here often, but..."

His voice trailed off. He seemed suddenly interested in a lock of hair by my ear. I tried to process what he was saying. Did he want to see me for a whole day instead of a few hours? Did he have another facility in mind?

"I like seeing you." He broke into my thoughts.

"I like seeing you, too."

He nodded and kissed me, a delicate thing that I wanted to last forever. It stole my breath. When he pulled away, I wanted to cling to his harness and keep him. Instead I undid the knots.

Before he pulled his pants back into place, he twisted to see the heart. I found a mirror in the rolling cart and held it for him. He admired it for a few minutes, touching the tender skin. I offered him the pictures, which I hadn't intended to keep.

"That's ok," he said. "I'll get them from you later."

 _Later._ The word soaked into my skin. I helped him redress and let him out, my head swimming. I cleaned up and sat in the dressing room. I held my torn stockings for a long time. I didn't know what to call the warmth in the pit of me. Or I did, but I didn't want to admit to something so messy and inconvenient.

I slept in our bed again, surrounded by his scent. He had exhausted me as completely with his subservience as he had with his dominance. I wanted to recover in his arms. I had to settle for the warm spot where he'd lain.

In the morning, I tucked the photos and stockings into my bag. Whatever Miss Babel knew or ignored... whatever Marilyn asked for or got... I needed to keep the moments we'd shared. I needed them to be mine.

When I turned the extra security bracelet in that afternoon, Miss Babel asked me to sit. I did, a cheap smile plastered on my face. I was scared. She closed the door and we were alone. A secretive smile tugged at her lips. She leaned forward and cleared her throat.


End file.
